Blue Light
by Kourion
Summary: That’s the thing about working in a military environment – people don’t want to talk about the past very often. Which is fine by me. Warnings for child abuse and general angst. Daniel centric.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**Blue Light

**Author**: Kourion

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Stargate, or Daniel, or anything cool. :/ And is this really necessary?

**AN**: this story is a vignette involving Daniel contemplating his childhood and adolescence while in foster care.

**Summary**: That's the thing about working in a military environment – people don't want to talk about the past very often. Which is fine by me.

**Warnings**: this story deals with the after effects of childhood sexual abuse (non-graphic, but it's in there). Read at your own risk.

---

**Not again.**

_**God, please…please…this has to stop!**_

It's early – maybe 0200 hours, if that – when I wake up, jolted by the nightmare, a cry half emerging from my throat, and a sick feeling in my belly, burning for release.

I push down the bile, the thoughts, the very muffled pain and try to focus on something safe – something good – anything by the dream, the images, the past. I do not want to get sick again, but the images are coming quicker now, more insistent – _relentless_. I can feel it coming…the sick…and I know I need to get out now. I can only hold off the inevitable for a few moments, I know this from experience, and so I rise gingerly – not wanting to disturb Jack or Teal'c.

A brief glance then: I watch them enviously as they doze.

Jack breathes evenly, lightly snoring, one hand curled up under his chin like a little kids, as he turns every few seconds. He's a light sleeper at the best of times, so I say a silent prayer that he was not awoken by my nightmares.

Teal'c, conversely, is dead to the world - his face serene, no movement coming from his side of the tent.

Neither has heard me.

_**Good…**_

In fact, the two look about as blissful as anyone can look while sleeping in such a cramped space, in desert territory no less…

The only good thing about the desert is that it does get cool after the sun goes down, and the winds can testify to this fact as they're now whipping about, howling in the night.

Yet, peculiarly, I am coated with sweat – a scent of sweet and sour, like bile, stomach acid – and for one insane moment I wonder if I've vomited in my sleep, unaware.

But that's crazy. I couldn't have slept through something like that.

Which is, of course, the reason why I woke up in the first place. The need to vomit is strong.

Opening the zippered flap, I pick up my sneakers with one hand and then re-zipper the flap behind me,

When I'm outside, I sit on the dry earth and squish my feet into the shoes – not bothering with untying the laces. I just…need to get it over with now. Before it comes up on its own, and alerts everyone to the fact that I, Daniel Jackson, am so completely **fucked** that I have been waking up for the last two weeks only to throw up my guts.

That would not go over well. I can just picture it.

They'd want to know why. There would be questions. At first they would think I was ill, gastroenteritis maybe? Food poisoning?

And then, if it happened again…and it will – they'd put two and two together and realize that it's not really physical at all.

It's emotional.

Long, lost, pushed aside, repressed emotions – but emotions all the same.

So then, it wouldn't even be a case of seeing Fraiser, getting some sort of treatment. There would be no options – save for a trip to the resident SGC shrink, and that's just not an option.

I don't want to even think about this stuff in sleep. I'm certainly not going to talk about it – willingly – with a complete stranger.

_**Completer stranger? What does THAT mean?**_

Or anyone else, of course. _No one_.

The idea of someone learning about this – of all _this _– is not a thought I welcome.

_**I've got to get away…now…**_

I can feel the cereal that I ate for dinner last night clawing its way up my esophagus.

So I sprint away from the campsite – to the outer edge of our territory, taking in a deep breath of air, before I bend over, clench my stomach, and vomit into the soil.

Tattered bits of semi chewed honey nut cheerios exit my mouth, and I wince – my throat tight, sore, my body shaking with the effort of getting sick, and my heart racing.

I close my eyes then, and try to will the nausea away, but my stomach flops again, and I find myself bending over once more, a fresh stream of sick racing out of my throat.

I cry out then – exhausted, upset, scared of what is happening to me – my reactions, my fear, my anger, my memories, returning.

A hand then, on my shoulder – gentle yet firm, and I freeze, my sob quieted by shock.

I hear her _shush _me then – she sees me, my pain – and I crumple into the ground, mortified, caught.

"It's okay, Daniel."

I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand, disgusted with the scene before me, sickened by the stench of throw up, and Sam hunched down, rubbing my back – seeing me. I'm exposed.

"How did you know?" and my voice sounds strange then – hollow.

"I was up the other night to get water, and I thought…I thought I heard something. And then today, you were so…quiet, so removed, and I thought…something was wrong. You've been losing weight, too, and you're gone after meals sometimes…and now…"

I sigh, stressed and unsure of how to proceed.

"I…didn't…didn't mean for this to happen."

And I glance at her then, her face half cloistered in blackness, have exposed by moonlight.

"I know."

"I just…can't help it anymore. I…it doesn't…it…I can't…"

"Daniel…"

Panic now…fresh, unbridled.

"You can't tell them! Oh god Sam, they wouldn't understand!"

"I don't understand!"

_**Oh god, oh god…she's going to tell Jack. And Teal'c.**_

My hands find their way to the loops on my jeans, and I pull, strangely tense, needing to tear something, needing to release something, nervous, tense.

"Daniel, calm down!"

"They can't know. Promise me!"

She grasps my arms at that, trying to still my attack on my jeans, and forces me to sit down.

Rubbing her thumb over the top of my hand, she says evenly, "I can't promise you that, Daniel. I can only promise to be your friend. I don't want you to hurt yourself any more."

_**Wha…? What? She doesn't think…? No, no….**_

"You think I'm doing this deliberately?"

She looks…tentative, and then, "aren't you?"

I can't believe this… I honestly cannot believe this…

"I'm not bulimic, Sam…"

"Daniel…"

"I'm not!"

"Okay, you're not. Ok. If that's the case…then why are you acting so secretive? And why are you sick? People don't throw up for no good reason. And this has been going on for a couple weeks now, hasn't it?"

I nod, begrudgingly.

"So? What's going on?"

My heart is still beating so fast.

"Daniel? Come on…talk to me."

I can feel them – the tears.

"I don't want to talk about it."

She starts to stand then, abruptly.

"If you can't talk to me about it, well – you'll need to talk to someone about it. You can't keep doing this. It's…it's dangerous."

"Damnit Sam! I don't have an eating disorder!"

She's quiet, waiting for me to continue.

"I have nightmares. Okay?"

I watch as her face takes on a new expression slowly.

"These nightmares are making you…sick? To this degree?"

I nod dumbly.

"Yeah. They're pretty bad."

_**Damn it. Don't cry. Please don't cry.**_

"Sha're?", she supplies.

I shake my head, resolutely.

"No…some stuff…some pretty fucked up stuff happened to me when I was a little kid."

She sits besides me then, waiting patiently for me to go on.

"I…it was when I was…10…10 and 11. I was in foster care. The _Merell's_…", I spit the name out, and close my eyes.

Despite her stillness, I can feel the imploration… _'go on…'_

When I try to speak again, my voice wavers, and I take it a deep breath, urging for control, stability.

"Remember when we were on PX204G7?", I try a different approach. The direct approach being too hard.

Sam nods hesitantly. "How could I forget? You punched our host…and Jack socked you in return, Teal'c held you down – you were…wild. Daniel…you were on leave for two weeks…you risked…"

"The guy was raping his son", I interject, my voice dropping off at the end.

No movement then, no sound. I feel Sam freeze; her hand stops its circular motion on the back of my arm, shocked into stillness.

"_What?!"_

"Bylin was raping his son."I grind out.

"Daniel, what are you talking about?! _What in_…?"

"He told me. The kid. Hebertus. Hebertus told me. He confided in me, before…the day before we were to leave."

Sam is rocking slightly on the heels of her feet, a pale, greenish cast set to her skin.

"You let Bylin be shot, didn't you? You didn't even try…you…"

_The Gould. Screaming, shouting, implorations… "Wait!" and me, running – not looking back. The blast. Bylin falling, contorted features, pain wracking his body._

"Of course not! He…he may have done some terrible things, but I didn't set out to get him killed. They were shooting at all of us, and had I gone back…"

She analyzes that, analyzes me.

"And you didn't say anything? You didn't TELL US?"

I'm immediately defensive.

"He was _dead_ Sam. It…it wouldn't have made a difference. It wouldn't have…changed the past…what happened to Hebertus. It never makes any difference…it's done, and he…he'll just have to deal with it, move past it, put it behind him, deal with the pain of it. But Bylin is gone…at least he won't hurt that kid again."

She gets up then, features strange, expression foreign, and begins to pace.

"This isn't like you. WHAT were you thinking? That kid should have seen a doctor…he should have…"

Grief, regret – yes, I feel those, but I feel something deeper.

"He didn't want anyone else to know, Sam. He was…13. A man, in his culture. He was…shamed, and he barely told me…_could_ barely tell me."

She's angry now.

"A man? He was a _**13 year old kid**_, who confided in you about sexual abuse…and you let it go?"

I can feel myself growing angry, too.

"He begged me NOT TO SAY anything. I was respecting his wishes. What would you have liked for me to have done? Insist he come back to the SGC, have Fraiser look him over?"

"Yes", her tone is brisk.

"It wouldn't have made any difference! He wasn't physically injured…not badly…it was…deeper than that, different. What could Fraiser do? Nothing, that's what! Absolutely nothing…just draw out the experience for him. Make him relive it. He didn't want that. I didn't want that **for** him!"

She's looking at me incredulously.

"You don't keep things like that secret, Daniel. When kids are hurt…you…"

I've heard enough.

I know all about kids being hurt, and Sam thinks she has the right to lecture me?

Bylin was gone, and Hebertus just wanted to move on, and who could blame him? There was nothing anyone could do for either situation – not for the dead man, nor the raped child.

I begin to walk away.

"Daniel! We are NOT done discussing this!"

Hot anger lashes my sides, works its way into my throat like the bile of earlier.

"You think I DIDN'T care about him, is that it? That I didn't feel for him? That I didn't want to help him? I _did_ help him, Sam – he confided in me, and that's the most that anyone in that situation can have. Cause he was little and scared and that's how things are! Sometimes kids get hurt like that, and it's horrible and it hurts like hell, but he had someone to talk to – he had that much. He had me – and that's more than some of us had!"

And I've said too much. I can see it – the expression of horror, raw and open and real.

"_Oh my God_", she's barely speaking, her voice barely above a whisper, "_**Daniel**_…"

I need to get away. I need to be alone, and I shake my head to get her to stop…trying…to console me, to stop her ministrations.

"It doesn't matter Sam."

Tears fill her eyes.

"_I didn't know__**. I'm so sorry**_…"

I hit the dirt with my runners, and a plume of dust fills the air.

"He's going to be okay now, Sam. It'll get better for…for us both. I just…it's…I…I don't like thinking about it. I can't think about it. When I do…I get sick. It…I can't help it."

Her eyes, large and blue and wide are begging for my own to make contact, to look at her, but I can't. I can't look at her – I can only look where she is not, before I turn and walk away, my emotions too strong, too forceful, willing my self to calm down.

_**I'm so sorry…**_

Her words thunder in my head, over and over again, like a mantra, and when I finally get far enough away from the tents, from Sam, from everyone and everything, I crouch down, compress in upon myself, and sob.

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**A/N:** Dark, I know. This may be kept as a stand alone, or I might add to it at some later time. R/R please. :) I'd love to hear what you guys think, angst aside!


	2. Chapter 2

**Nat:** here is a second portion, featuring the other team members :) 

**WinterstarDonna:** that's one aspect of the story that I want to remain sensitive to…the angst-factor. I want to keep it realistic, not _over-the-top_ dramatic. ;) Hopefully, I will accomplish this – without letting the story get a) maudlin or b) rushed in feel - dismissive. I certainly don't want to downplay the issue. It's a serious topic, but it is also an old wound for Daniel, so I'm going to keep that in mind. He's more or less going to direct the flow of conversation, because Sam isn't an unusually pushy character. And she doesn't want to dredge up bad memories for her friend…she just doesn't want him to ignore a situation that is getting worse, and causing him greater pain.

**Starjems88, Eilidh17**: thanks you guys :)

**TiaRat**: as the story progresses, depending on the length (sort of taking it section by section right now), I would like to expose the entire series of events which lead to Hebertus confiding in Daniel, and the problems Daniel starts to face as a result afterwards. Yes, you're right – Daniel has been triggered. More by something he sees, which brings back a rather traumatizing memory. It's not purely an intellectual appreciation for what the kid went through – because he was aware of his own abuse since he was a kid himself, and it wasn't completely something he ever denied. But he actually sees something with strikes a chord with him, and almost 'awakens' him to an old memory he had, in fact, actually been suppressing. And of course, suppression can go on for years, and then memories can come back very forcibly during times of strain –causing all sorts of problems in their wake.

----

_**2 Days Later**_

----

"You're going to rot your teeth, Danny-boy."

I look up dumbly.

"What?"

It's too early for this – for Jack's asinine ramblings about how I eat too much sugar and drink too many caffeinated beverages. Especially considering the fact that he has four began waffles stacked up on his plate, oozing with syrup, topped with chocolate chips and whipped cream.

My stomach flops with revulsion as I stare at the mass of cream and white.

"You really shouldn't comment on _my_ meal choices, Jack. It's far too hypocritical of you."

"Yeah? So? What's wrong with me being hypocritical?", he queries with a full mouth, chomping away on vanilla pancake.

"_**So**_", I stress, "hypocrisy doesn't really suit you, _**Mr. "I eat a well balanced diet".**_ How is a diet of Jack Daniels, rum, and waffles healthier than my cereal, coffee and snickers bars, oh _all-knowledgeable one_?"

Teal'c turns to me, solemnly, before shifting to look back at our CO.

"He has a point, O'Neill."

Sam smirks at this and nibbles on a piece of bacon for a second, before mashing the remainder into her eggs, coating the meat with yolk.

"Oh come _ON_, Daniel", Jack whines, "I'm having a normal Irish breakfast…you're the one dumping sugar cubes into peaches-and-cream oatmeal. Which, by the way, is more than sweet enough _without _the added sugar."

Teal'c analyzes my fare at that comment, suddenly curious.

"Are honey nut cheerios no longer appealing, Daniel Jackson? I thought they were, and I quote, _"the best food in the world"_?"

I notice Sam's eyes fall back to her plate, the smirk on her face now gone.

_Oh boy, not this again…_

I laugh, hesitantly, not sure what to say.

"You can only eat any one food…a certain number of times in a row before it makes you sick, Teal'c. Even Cheerios – as _perfect _as they are – have a limit."

He seems to digest this information.

"And yet, I am confused Daniel Jackson…for you never seem to have this problem with coffee, which you drink like ra'na'cha – or, water. Life granting liquid."

I roll my eyes. Teal'c drinks more than his fair share of java too, just like Jack eats more than his fair share of sugar.

So why is everyone commenting on _my _dietary practices lately?

It's becoming tiresome.

"Well, even with a good old fashioned cup of joe…you can make yourself ill. If you drink enough of it, that is. Trust me, I've done so many times in my life", I pause in thought, "especially during grad school. Those years stand out quite prominently."

Sam is now stabbing her hash browns with her fork. Hard. She looks a little off put.

I try to think of something…some topic that we can ease into, because Jack is already giving Sam the oddest look.

"You okay there, Carter?"

I inwardly groan.

She looks up, confused.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Why?"

Jack smiles widely.

"You look like you have a bone to pick with those tatters, is why."

"No…I'm…no…" Sam begins, only to be cut off by the Klaxon sirens starting up again.

"What the hell?" Jack begins, irritation evident in his voice, "that's _only the fifth time this week_."

Sam pushes her plate away then, and stands up suddenly.

"That reminds me…" and she trails off before hightailing it out of the refectory.

"_O…kay_…" Jack drawls, clearly nonplussed by Sam's actions.

But suddenly I don't feel very hungry either, and I follow suit – pushing away my oatmeal.

"Oh for Pete's sake! You too? I thought you wanted your over-sucrosed oatmeal confection thingamabob", Jack begins, before turning to Teal'c, annoyed, "and you…" he points at the Jaffa, "**you **better eat your…" his eyes study our companions breakfast, "… whole wheat toast and fruit salad."

Teal'c nods severely, and I struggle to keep from laughing.

"Enjoy your carbs there, Jack…Teal'c", and I rise to leave, pushing in my chair before I do so.

I need to catch up with Sam.

---------

I find her in Janet's office, rubber tie looped near the crux between her forearm and upper arm.

"Blood test?" and I give a dramatic little shudder to broadcast my sympathies.

Of course, it's no secret that I'm a little queasy about blood tests. I always have been, and despite Janet's insistence that I'd "get used to it" as time went on, I haven't. It still makes me sick to my stomach.

It's the one black part of my job – the medical tests, the poking, the prodding, the inoculations, the time spent getting needles.

I try to quell my squeamish reaction.

Sam looks over at me as I wipe a thin film of sweat away from my brow.

"You're looking a little peeked there, Daniel."

"Uh…" I can't stop staring at the vein protruding out of her skin, and my knees weaken, "let's…let's just cover this up for a second, hmm?" and I roll down Sam's khaki shirt.

"So…you came for the moral support?" Sam asks brightly, chipper. _**Too chipper.**_

I scan for Janet, or a nurse – or anyone, really.

"They just left you here? All…set up…and everything? To draw out the torture, or what?"

Sam sighs. "They are out of alcohol swabs. So…Janet just left to get some more from the medical storage room. She'll be right back."

_Ok. I have a few minutes then…_

"Look Sam…I know you're not happy with me right now…"

She shakes her head at that, "No…don't be silly Daniel. I'm not angry with you."

I swallow down a lump, upset with this sense of strain, new and unfamiliar, in our relationship.

"You're _**avoiding**_ me. You won't look at me; you don't talk to me unless I initiate the conversation. Is it just because I didn't tell you about Hebertus? Because he asked me to not say anything, and…well, you weren't in my position Sam! The kid was already so distrustful, and I had _promised_ him…it wasn't…"

I'm rambling now.

Sam waves her hands slightly to get my attention.

"Don't be silly Daniel", and she sighs deeply at that, "_**Look**_ – I know you were put in a very difficult…position. You did what you thought was right."

I fill in the unspoken extension.

"But _you _obviously don't think I did the _right _thing".

It's hard to keep the hurt out of my voice.

She rubs her eyes at that, looking at once quite tired - terribly drained.

"I've given it some thought…and I don't think that what you did was necessarily wrong, no. It may not have been how I would have liked to see everything turn out…but you're right…I **wasn't** the one in that position. Hebertus didn't come to me. _He went to you._ He trusted **you.** So while it's easy for me to say what I would have done had I been in your place…in all honesty, I'm not sure I would have handled things differently."

That gives me hope.

_And yet…_

I marshal my courage.

"You've still been…avoiding me, Sam. Why?"

She looks uncomfortable then and her eyes flitter down to the metal frame of the bed once more.

"I…I thought that you might just want your space", she supplies.

A thoughtful gesture…if I believed that this was all there was to it. But I can't help but feel that it is an excuse – and merely the first one to come to her mind.

"Are you sure that's it? That you aren't angry with me? Not for Hebertus, really….but…you know…the _other_ stuff?"

Sam opens her mouth to speak, but looks uncertain of what to say or how to say it. I, however, know what **I** want to express, and do not delay.

"It happened a long time ago Sam, and I sort of worked through it on my own, and it was hard back then. And still is. But it's not something I ever felt the need to discuss. I was able to go on, and put it behind me, but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting, doesn't still hurt. _It does_. I just… don't want you to feel like I was…keeping something from you because you thought that I didn't trust you. I trust you more than anyone."

I stop talking then, as Janet has returned, industrial strength hydrogen peroxide and alcohol swabs in hand.

Sam is staring at me intently, her face looking both soft and saddened, simultaneously.

Janet breaks us from our spell.

"Daniel…well, well…it's nice to see you in here without an escort. Don't tell me you came here voluntarily for your tetanus shot?"

I wince at that.

I had totally forgotten that memo. Was it tetanus shot time again, already?

"Janet – I've just had one…not more than five years ago!", and she rolls her eyes, not wanting to indulge me, as I start to rise, the chemicals, the needles, the frickin' elastic bands and veins and Sam and peroxide…all of it making me unsteady, hypersensitive. _Sick._

I begin to shake my head, looking for an out - trying to buy myself time – when Sam grabs my arm.

"Don't be a wuss, Jackson", she laughs. "Putting things off never helped anyone."

I can feel the _between-the-lines_ imploration at that comment, and I will my heart to stop beating so quickly.

Sam isn't forcing me into anything. She's only tried to show support, and express her concerns.

So why is this concern – this basic, friendship oriented, _run-of-the-mill_ concern – making me so self-conscious, so self-aware? So anxious?


End file.
